The Plains of Pluto
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 25
Greece
Ky moved through the muddy forward trench that still hadn’t dried in spite of the lack of rain for the past week and the relatively warm temperatures. The dampness was affecting everything, from the men’s morale to the construction of the very trench itself.
The planking, laid down to provide stable footing, had rotted away in places, creating treacherous spots that could be dangerous to men running through the trench in the heat of combat.
He made a note to have the officers check the wood frames of the trench and the planking and to replace them as needed.
The trench followed the natural contour of the hillside, cutting a jagged line across the Greek landscape that had probably once been lush farmland but now looked like the moons of Jupiter that he’d flown patrols around in a life long ago.
Or, rather, a long time from now.
“Excuse us, sir,” a voice called from behind.
He turned to see a decanus, leading a squad of eight men carrying crates of ammunition, waiting to get past Ky and his party, who were partially blocking the narrow path through the trench.
“Good thinking, Decanus. You’re going to find that your men will go through this ammunition much faster than the older stuff. Make sure you keep a lot of spares around and that your men keep their pockets full for when the enemy tries another push.”
“Yes, sir, we’ll do that. We got training with these things two days ago, and by the gods do they shoot fast. Those bastards are going to be in for a hard day when they try and push us again.”
“Better them than us,” Ky said, slapping the man on the shoulder as he stood aside to let him and his squad through.
The men laughed as they went by. The conditions may still be horrendous, but from what he’d seen so far on this tour, their spirits were up now that they’d had a chance to try out the new rifles for themselves and saw just what they could do.
He continued forward, passing a group of veterans who were showing several new recruits how to brace a rifle against the front wall of the trench. An older soldier demonstrated placing the weapon in a notch carved precisely into the earth, explaining how to aim at specific points across No Man’s Land and to recognize the range markers they used to tell the distance and how to adjust their sights. Ky paused, listening to the man give his instructions.
“This notch is for two hundred paces, where they usually form their first line. You’ll see when they pass that big crater with the fallen tree there, they should line up just right. And this one’s for one-fifty, when they’re halfway to us. You’ll want to wait until they reach the old crater there with the sleeping man on the rim before you start firing.”
It was a macabre sort of marker, using the body of a fallen Easterner who did indeed look like he’d just curled up for a nap, as a visual guide to the distance of the enemy. The recruits, however, took the instructions seriously, nodding along with each word, their faces intent.
“It’s the Consul!” one of the younger ones, a boy still in his teens, said.
The teenager jumped to attention, just as a drill instructor at the training grounds had probably taught him. The veterans, on the other hand, sort of turned around or stood up, but otherwise kept slouched and relaxed.
They knew Ky from his frequent visits to the line, and his preference to not stand on ceremony.
“As you were,” Ky said, stepping closer to inspect the notches cut into the trench. “Replacements?”
“Yes, sir,” the veteran answered. “Straight off the train from the training camp. Arrived this morning.”
“Listen to your officers and the seasoned men; remember your training, and you’ll do fine,” he said, putting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“Yes, Consul,” the boy replied, seeming like he was about to swoon.
Ky smiled at him, mostly to keep the grimace off his face. The kid had to be a Roman. The allied men or even Caledonians could be bad enough, but true Romans were the worst when it came to the pedestal they liked to put him on. In spite of his best efforts, the story of the sword had become all but universal in Rome, and every man who followed the Roman gods believed it with his whole heart.
It could be tiring to deal with. Not that Ky held it against the young man. He knew what he knew, and he was out here putting his life on the line. The least Ky could do was play his part.
He moved on, stopping at intervals to check defensive positions and speak with the soldiers. Britannian troops lined the trenches as far as he could see, most wearing the standard dark grey tunics of the legion, now covered with mud and worn from weeks in the field. Although clean-shaven was the standard in Rome, most had joined their Germanic brethren in growing beards.
At a widened section of trench that served as a squad post, a centurion sat on an ammunition crate, cleaning his rifle. Six of his men were eating a cold breakfast of hardtack and dried beef. All were veterans and remained where they were when Ky spoke.
“How are you all doing?” Ky asked, gesturing for them to continue their meal.
“Good, sir. It was quiet through the night. Their patrols were active until about three hours before dawn, then they withdrew. We’ve spotted increased movement behind their lines since first light. Probably gonna have a fight today.”
“How are your men holding up?”
“Tired but ready. The new rifles have lifted spirits considerably.”
“Where are you from, soldier?” he asked one who appeared older than the others, with deep lines etched around his eyes.
“Londinium.”
“What did you do in Londinium, before the war?”
“Fish merchant before I enlisted.”
“Family?”
“Wife and three children, sir. Youngest was born after I left for the front.”
“And you?”
“Linnglas in Ulaid. Raised sheep.”
“Good farming country there.”
The soldier smiled slightly. “That it is, sir.”
Ky continued down the line, asking each man about his home and family. It was a small thing, but he’d learned over years of command that such personal connections mattered, especially before battle. Men fought harder for leaders who saw them as individuals rather than interchangeable parts in a military machine.
One of the soldiers was trying to balance his rifle and a small package. That was one of the things that Ky had worked with Lucilla to set up. A way for men to send letters on the supply trains back home, and for their families to send things to them.
Besides knowing their loved ones were alive, hearing about the front gave the people at home incentive to keep it at the forefront of their minds, instead of thinking of it as something separate and far away.
“Mail from home, sir,” he explained when he saw Ky looking at him. “Just arrived this morning.”
“I hope it’s something good,” Ky said.
Before the soldier could share his treat with his friends, there was the sound of a distant boom, followed by the distinctive whine of an incoming shell.
“Incoming!” someone screamed.
The shell impacted thirty paces behind the trench, sending dirt and rock fragments showering over them. Moments later, dozens more explosions erupted along the line as the enemy artillery opened up in full force.
Ky pressed himself against the forward wall of the trench as more shells screamed overhead. The ground shook with each impact, dislodging dirt from the trench walls. Men crouched low, protecting their rifles from the debris raining down.
A shell landed directly on the trench twenty yards down the line, sending bodies and equipment flying. Screams of wounded men cut through the din of the bombardment. Medics rushed forward, dragging casualties toward a reinforced dugout that served as an aid station.
“We need to get to the command bunker,” Modius insisted, grabbing Ky’s arm. “You can’t direct the defense from here.”
Another shell landed nearby, closer this time, the concussion slamming them against the trench wall. Ky shrugged Modius off and moved toward the impact site where soldiers were already digging to free buried comrades.
“I’m staying,” Ky said as he started pulling rubble off the buried men.
Modius frowned but, to his credit, did not argue. Probably due to the long years of dealing with Lucilla and seeing how stubborn she could be. Instead, he joined Ky, helping rescue the buried men.
Another shell flew overhead, wailing its death song before striking somewhere behind their position. Ky ignored it and continued digging through the collapsed trench section, finally pulling the last young soldier from the rubble. The man’s face was covered in mud, but his eyes fluttered open as he gasped for breath.
“Can you stand?” Ky asked.
Three more shells struck in quick succession along the forward line, causing the ground to buckle beneath them.
“Into the dugout!” Modius pointed to a reinforced shelter twenty paces away.
“Get him to the aid station first.”
“We’ll handle him, Consul. You need to get under cover,” a centurion said.
A shell hit ten yards to their left, flinging dirt and splintered planking upward. The blast slammed them against the trench wall as Modius took Ky’s arm and pulled him toward the dugout entrance.
“Now, sir.”
They entered the reinforced shelter just as another shell landed above. The dugout quivered, and dirt filtered down between the timber supports. Inside, soldiers crouched along the walls with their rifles held above the floor to keep them from the dirt falling with each impact. Outside, the men pressed themselves against the trench walls for protection.
The bombardment intensified. Shells hit in patterns along their front line, smashing the Britannian line in rapid succession.
A medic stumbled in dragging a wounded man whose trouser leg was drenched with blood where shrapnel had carved through muscle. Two soldiers helped apply a tourniquet above the wound.
“Medical dugouts filling fast,” the medic said. “Stretcher-bearers can’t keep up.”
Outside, officers shouted for men to hold positions despite the pounding. Ky heard trench sections collapsing and water splashing as the artillery found one of their storage cisterns.
“Flood! Water’s coming through!”
Ky stepped toward the entrance, but Modius blocked his path.
“Please, Consul. Wait until this barrage lifts.”
Ky hated hiding in here while his men died, and wanted to be doing something, but Modius was right. Even with all of his enhancements, there was little he could do, either about the flooding or the shells. Muddy water flowed past the dugout, carrying broken equipment and needed supplies. A quick-thinking soldier grabbed floating canteens, securing them for the thirst that would follow once the fighting began.
On and on it went. The men with him, in the relative safety of the dugout, were handling it well, but Ky knew the men unlucky enough not to have a place to hide would be feeling the full effects with each bone-rattling explosion. After twenty minutes of constant shelling, the shells slowed.
No, they didn’t slow, just shifted, moving from the front line to the secondary line and even a little beyond.
“They’re shifting to the rear areas,” Ky said. “Cutting off our reinforcement routes.”
“They learned from last time. Our second line reinforcements kept their breakthrough from succeeding.”
“Which means they’re planning another major push.”
“Sir, the tribune reports heavy damage to the communication trenches. Second and third-line reinforcements will have difficulty reaching us when the attack comes.”
“They will find a way. Tell him to identify alternate routes now, before the infantry assault begins and he’s ordered to send in reinforcements as soon as the attack starts. As long as he can do so effectively. Tell him to use his own initiative,” Ky said, before turning to Modius. “I’m going to check the line.”
This time Modius followed without argument as Ky went into what remained of their forward trench. The destruction was extensive, with whole sections collapsed, creating gaps in their line. Soldiers cleared debris and rebuilt firing positions while others collected weapons and ammunition from the dead.
In one section, water from the destroyed cistern had turned the trench into knee-deep mud where soldiers stood on makeshift platforms, keeping rifles and ammunition dry.
Ky stopped at a badly damaged section where men struggled to rebuild a firing step.
“Use the support beams from the collapsed section,” he said, lifting a timber into place. “Pack dirt behind them and reinforce with whatever you can find.”
The soldiers worked quickly at his direction as a young optio approached.
When they finished, he ordered, “Redistribute from the dead and wounded. Then, send men to retrieve more from the supply depot if they can get to it. You’ll need every round when they come.”
For nearly thirty more minutes, enemy shells fell on their rear positions. It was strange in the front trenches, where the relative quiet allowed the men to prepare for the coming assault. The enemy had definitely learned from past attempts and was trying something new.
“Forward observer reports movement in the enemy trenches. They’re forming up for an assault,” a runner said.
Ky nodded. “Alert all positions. Have them hold their fire until they reach the range markers.”
The runner left, relaying the orders down the line. Soldiers adjusted positions and checked their rifles while those who had been repairing trenches took up their weapons and moved to firing positions.
“We really should withdraw to the command bunker, sir,” Modius said.
“No. Not this time,” he said, taking a rifle that was lying next to an ammunition crate, checking the action and lever before filling his pockets with cartridges.
“Sir,” Modius began, but stopped when he saw Ky’s expression.
“They need to see that their commanders stand with them.” Ky took position at a firing step. “We have the weapons now. We can finally turn things around.”
Modius was still not happy but found a rifle of his own, following his leader’s example.
Ky could tell that the word was spreading quickly that the Consul himself was manning the forward trench. More men came running up, joining them on the line. Even some who looked pretty seriously injured had come back into position, ready to keep fighting.
“Here they come,” someone called out.
Through a periscope mounted on the trench wall, Ky studied the approaching enemy as they emerged in what looked like a continuous wave. Their numbers were terrifying, but they still had to cross nearly half a mile of exposed ground.
“Remember your training,” Ky called out. “Wait for the order to fire. Make every shot count.”
The enemy advanced across No Man’s Land. Through the periscope, Ky saw officers urging them forward, knowing they would be fired on any minute.
“They’re approaching the first marker. Six hundred paces.”
“Remain steady. Wait for my command,” a centurion said, watching the range markers.
“Five hundred paces.”
Ky didn’t interfere. He let the officers do their job. It was their right to give the order. Ky was just a visitor in their world.
“Four hundred paces.”
Men gripped their rifles tightly, focused on the approaching enemy as the lead elements became clearly visible through the smoke and dust left behind by the artillery barrage.
“Three hundred paces.”
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